Mea Culpa
by Lady Razorsharp
Summary: In which Holmes is reminded that his actions affect those around him...


Mea Culpa

By The Lady Razorsharp

AN: Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson, and all related characters property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The scene as dramatized belongs to Granada Productions' _The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes_. This takes place during "The Illustrious Client."

Je suis la et ailleurs

_I am here and somewhere else_  
Je n'ai plus rien

_I have nothing more_  
Je deviens folle

_I am going crazy_  
Je m'abandonne

_I am letting myself go_  
Mea culpa

I'm guilty 

Enigma

Holmes would later admit it was one of the less brilliant moments of his career.

It _was_ his first engaging case in quite a while, but letting the case occupy his mind to the point of distraction was his first mistake. That and letting his emotion for poor, scarred Kitty as she confronted that monster, the Baron, get the best of him; both contributed to the fact that he was operating at less than his usual hawk-keen level of awareness.

He rounded a corner, and twin shadows detached themselves from their surroundings to stand in his path. Brandishing their cudgels menacingly, the two toughs leered with their remaining teeth at the slick-haired figure in the tailored greatcoat and silk top hat.

Holmes blinked. It took him less than a second to process the situation, but it turned out to be a second he could ill afford. He grinned wolfishly.

"So, that's the way it's to be then!" he snarled, tossing away his elegant hat. Drawing back his silver-topped walking stick, he charged into the fray, swinging the stick in deadly, precise arcs leftover from his days as a fencing champion.

Two against one were never fair odds, even when the two were London scum and the one was one of the most brilliant minds of his age. Holmes got a few good blows in, but his assailants' determination lent them a terrible strength. One sent the walking stick skittering away on the slimy cobbles, and the other used his cudgel to put numbing pressure against Holmes' throat. The first turned his attention to burying his fist in Holmes' midsection, and his companion soon joined him in pummeling their victim without mercy.

To his credit, Holmes made no sound as the blows came, save a strangled gasp as an iron fist connected with his solar plexus. He couldn't breathe, his mouth was full of blood, and the edges of his vision were beginning to go gray when they finally threw him to the cobbles. His tormentors ran away, leaving him to bleed.

_Lost without my Boswell,_ was the last thought that chimed against Holmes' brain before the darkness descended.

Knowing Holmes as she did, Mrs. Hudson knew better than to wait up for him when he was working. She had gone to bed, consoling herself with a cup of tea and the fact that he had always (with one notable three-year exception) come home sooner or later.

So it was that the barrage of blows against the front door of 221B Baker Street woke her from a sound sleep. A shiver of dread ran down her spine as she pulled on her dressing gown, and she hurriedly struck a light to carry with her.

Her worst fears were realized when she opened the door to find two Bobbies bearing the disheveled, bloodied form of her employer. Both young policemen were pale as paper under their tall helmets.

Mrs. Hudson whirled to bang on another door—that of Holmes' protégée and messenger boy, Billy. The boy opened the door, rubbing his eyes and blinking in the sudden light. Then he caught sight of Holmes, and his eyes went as round as saucers.

"Billy," Mrs. Hudson said firmly, "Run and get Dr. Watson. Hurry, now!"

"No," Holmes muttered. "Not Watson."

"But—" Mrs. Hudson began.

"_No_."

And with that, Holmes promptly passed out.

Something was terribly wrong.

Watson, a Christian, was never one to put any weight to premonitions, but he had awoken that morning with a feeling of utter dread in the pit of his stomach. The surgery of the night before had gone well, and he had checked on his patient to find everything in order. He went to his club for breakfast, but though the meal was fine, he found he could eat little, and what he did eat was tasteless. He smoked a cigarette and listened to the conversations around him, but the feeling was only growing worse.

Watson stubbed out his cigarette and went to collect his hat and coat. His mind was made up: He would go see Holmes.

As he exited the club, he found himself in a large crowd gathered around the paper-seller.

"Vicious attack last evening on Sherlock Holmes!" called the vendor. "Read all about it!"

The dread exploded into a million shards of ice that froze Watson's blood. _No…_

His blue eyes were already scanning the print as he snatched it from the vendor's hand.

_…out of the shadows…two assailants…savagely beaten…_

He would later be unable to remember if he paid for the newspaper.

Billy opened the door, years of worry lifting from his young face at the sight of the man who was his employer's best and dearest friend. Watson could see that the boy was trying his best to be brave, but had no doubt that if he had opened his arms to him, Billy would have stumbled forward and sobbed out his fear and relief against Watson's wool lapel. Instead, Watson reached out and patted the boy on the shoulder.

"It'll be all right, you'll see," the doctor murmured. Billy nodded gravely, eyes brimming.

As Watson stepped into the foyer, he found Mrs. Hudson waiting in the hall, relief written on her tired features. "Oh, thank God," was all she said, and turned to lead Watson up the stairs.

The room was dark, and Watson could just make out the supine form under the duvet. Closer inspection revealed one gray eye swollen nearly shut, a high forehead swathed in bandages, traces of blood lingering around one corner of a split lip. The gray eyes opened—as much as they could, anyway—to drowsy slits.

"Don't look so _scared_, Watson," Holmes drawled thickly.

_Mea culpa_

End


End file.
